It's all your fault

By now you've realized that I've unfriended you. It was a painful decision, as I knew that I'd never be able to see your reaction when you confusedly scanned your friends list and I was nowhere to be found, and then successfully sought me on our (previously) mutual friends' lists to find that I hadn't, as you originally assumed, left the site for good--I simply left you.

Is it for good? I think so. Remember the bus ride? I do. Remember the dessert buffet and the stray dog? Those were good times, but now are in my past, the door to them painfully closed forever.

Do I hold you personally responsible for the Snoqualmie Batholith? How can you even ask that? I hold you responsible for the entire Cascadia Subduction Zone and all activity within 442 km to the east. Don't act surprised. You knew about the friction those plates were causing, and as I got pushed further down, I eventually lost my ability to store all of that mechanical stress. Couldn't you see it in my eyes, the toll it was taking on me?

Why didn't I bring it up before? That's a good question. I guess I figured you'd just blame it on San Andreas, or Tōhoku, or anything that happened near Prince Rupert. I just don't have the forbearance to stand up to the magnetite you produce, and you produce magnetite like a surf scoter forages for tasty mussels from the ocean shallows.

There was a time when we had the ability to look out the window, run through the grass, and struggle for dominion over a restaurant creamer carafe. We could have stood on the edge of the St. Helens crater, stopped to eat our trail mix at Ape Cave, and then made our way back down the mountain, bruised and bracken-scratched, to wait in line for the restrooms at the Johnston Ridge Observatory. We missed that window, that window that we once had the ability to look out of. And our days of grass and running and trail mix have receded and been compressed into a tiny movie running on a tiny film projector run by a rather tall man who works in a non-union drive-in theater somewhere in Kitsap County.

I have taken to raising pigeons. At first it was for food (these are lean times), but after investing in all of those costly bird leg bands inscribed with my email address and a short e.e. cummings poem, my interest took a different turn. After several months of studying the birds' biological compass(es), I found that their flight patterns and behaviors told an intimate backstory of our friendship: its beginning, quiet middle, and quieter end. I realize now that the pigeons, picking up, storing, and analyzing the high-resolution aeromagnetic data from your activity, were warning me all along. They knew that you controlled faults extending far beyond what I (foolishly) assumed were simply near the surface.

The aftermath of my pigeon observations and the resulting excruciating realizations is my decision to volunteer for a clinical trial involving pigeon brainstem cell transplants. Researchers at Baylor are currently reviewing my application, and I hope to hear from them soon regarding whether or not I qualify for the study. If their hypothesis is correct—that these special cells collect data from the inner ear and store them on a map in the hippocampus—then there is hope that, when you decide to shift the plates again, I will be equipped with a warning system that will tell me what I need to know: where to fly, where to land, and where to rest should the magnetic fields prove to be too strong for a weak human soul to resign to anything but armistice or permanent sleep.

The New Sofa

This weekend I was driving through the CD and saw a sofa by the curb and decided to take a look. It was a nice, neutral color, which I like. I hate that cabbage rose and Wedgwood blue shit. The upholstery had a little tear at the back, but only about 4 inches long. And that's the side that faces the wall, so, really, who cares? Really--who? So I called a friend and said, I'll buy you a Coke if you come over with your pickup. He's a real Coke whore, a  real cheap son of a bitch, so getting him to get off his ass, leave his TV for an hour, and drive to the CD was no big deal.

When we got back to my place and parked in the alley behind my building, there was a homeless guy who asked if we needed help unloading and moving the sofa, and I said, sure, dude, I'll give you a Coke. Really, the plan was to just give him a small cup of Coke, because if my friend was doing all that driving and hauling for a full can, it would be pretty unfair and offensive to him to give the homeless guy an entire can of his own. It didn't matter anyway, because the homeless guy said "Fuck you!" when I made the offer, and went off down the alley to look for some sucker who'd give him, I don't know, THREE Cokes or something for moving an ironing board.

We had a hell of a time getting the sofa up the four flights to my apartment. It was really a pain in the ass, and my friend kept saying, "Geez, I could really use a Coke about now," but I wasn't going to let the cow get his milk for free, so I just told him to stop dropping the goddamn sofa every five steps and get moving.
It took awhile to find the perfect spot in my living room. First we put it on the west wall, which has the most space. But it didn't look right there. So I had my friend move it to the east wall, which took him quite awhile, because he had to get it over the top of the old sofa, which we'd moved to the middle of the room to keep out of the way.

But the east wall has all my art on it, and some of the paintings are hung at a level below the back of the sofa. Did I really want to measure the space and plan new nail holes? No. Because I wouldn't just have to move my set of 3 dead game bird still lifes (oils, of course; great detail! I got them at an art show at the airport Red Lion)--I'd have to move every single goddamn painting. In addition, my TV is hung on that wall, surrounded by the art. If I moved the art, I'd have to move the TV, and that means hammering through the plaster in another spot so that TV is partially recessed into the wall as it is now. Have you ever done plaster work? It's a major pain in the ass.

So then I had my friend move it to the south wall, but that's underneath the windows, and I was worried about the upholstery fading. I think I've already said that the upholstery is a really nice neutral color. In my experience, if neutral fades, it look less neutral, and more vibrant. And I hate vibrant. I like colors that resemble things you kind find in nature, like rocks, or dead game birds.

By now he was all "A Coke would be really refreshing about now," and I told him to cool his jets. So I said I'd like to see the sofa against the west wall, and he was all, that's-where-we-had-it-in-the-first-place, and I was all, do-you-want-your-fucking-Coke-or-not, so he lifted the sofa over the old sofa again, and put it on the west wall. It then occurred to me that the west wall was the perfect spot, as a radiator is on that wall, and I can lie on the sofa with my feet at the radiator end and they'll stay nice and toasty.

It was time to try it out. I sat on the sofa, where I could admire my art collection and see the TV. Then I got up, went to the opposite wall, and looked at the new sofa. I couldn't really get a good idea of how it looked with the old sofa in the way, so I had my friend move it to the hallway. That was much better. The sofa looked great! I was pretty satisfied with all our effort.

After my friend took the old sofa down the stairs and put it in the back of his truck to haul to the dump, I opened one of the alley-side windows on my floor to give him his Coke. "Here ya go!" I called out, and tossed him the can. He was tying the old sofa down with ratchet straps, and didn't move fast enough to catch it, so it fell on the concrete and the pop-tab opened. He was able to get to it before all the contents sprayed out though, and put his whole mouth around the can top to suck out the pressure. I've heard that there's less pressure build-up in room temperature soda vs. cold soda, so I think he got nearly three-quarters of a can.

Back in my apartment, I turned on my TV, grabbed couple of throw pillows, and lay down with my feet propped up on the sofa arm next to the radiator. Wow! What a comfortable piece of furniture--and what a deal. I suppose some people might say that I should use a lint roller on the whole thing to get rid of the pet hair, that I should turn over the middle cushion to hide the stain, and that vinegar is good for getting rid of urine odors. To these people I say, "Fuck off," because you can't fix something that ain't broke, and you can't break a free lunch.

How to Work with a Writer

Writers are almost like normal people. To squeeze the most use out of your writer, first consider the importance of describing your project to them. Don't worry—like badminton, the more you do it, the better you'll get. Tell your writer:

• whom the work is for (the target audience)
• the objectives (why it's being written)
• the voice (the CEO? colloquial? formal?)
• the length in words, paragraphs, or pages
• the deadline
• what the high-level outline looks like
• who the additional contributors and/or reviewers are

Getting the most from your writer

You'll get better-quality materials if:

• ...you give succinct feedback (not just "change this," but "rephrase this; the word 'attuned' doesn't work here").
• ...you allow a reasonable deadline. Writers will try to schedule their work, and you'll get a quality job done faster if you give them the time they need.
• ...you understand a little about how writers work, because you'll have a window into their progress on your project. Writers tend to think in terms of deadlines, drafts, and length of the written piece. They break up their time units of interviews, research, writing, editing, and reviews.

Sometimes writers have their own rules

Many writers see no problem with using "they" as a singular pronoun, but will go on a rampage if you use "who" when you should use "whom." Some can't stand "e.g.," and will demand that "for example" be used instead. Find out what these quirks are, and go with the flow.

Writers are individuals

Like snowflakes, grains of sand, and naked pink kangaroo joeys that have not yet left the pocket, all writers are different. Some are literal, some like to write poems using cooked spaghetti in their spare time. The earlier and better you integrate a writer into your project, the more you'll find out about how they work. Then you'll be able to anticipate how you can most successfully work with them.

Scruffy

Naked carnation gray I wavered in, dodo-nosed, stumbley pie. There were
barfed-up bees and sandwich crusts and the straw was musty warm
and all was scratchy comfort.
Since then, rain and sun and nasty ice, and sometimes French fries,
a nice puddle for bathing, the glints of light piercing the library mirrors
and sponged up by the bronze vertebrae,
tiny minty leaves ungathering and sinuating,
then yellowing and relinquishing.
Here is my spot, mostly unseen, almost dry, almost safe,
pinions every whichway, down undowned,
on my left temple a fluffy badge like an extra ear saluting the sky.
Say something to me that soaks my pallium,
or better yet draft me a map to the middle way
and I will compass my way back
after my oily plumes tatter away,
coral feet curling up stiff, and
my mind molts the body,
think well of me and I will return, following the poles,
finding a new true family,
naked carnation gray.